


To Have the Moon

by viatorix



Category: Bridgerton (TV)
Genre: Crossdressing, Daddy Queer Granville protecting his Queerlings, Eloise cons her way into becoming one of London's greatest rakes, F/F, Lesbian Eloise, Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:08:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28647309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/viatorix/pseuds/viatorix
Summary: Just one night, she pleaded. That was all she wanted, all she needed to taste the freedom she so dearly desired. The kind of freedom men took for granted. And if tasting such freedom meant pretending to be a man herself, well, that was a very small price to pay.
Relationships: Eloise Bridgerton & Benedict Bridgerton, Eloise Bridgerton & Henry Granville Mentorship, Eloise Bridgerton/Female Characters
Comments: 26
Kudos: 256





	To Have the Moon

If she was being truthful, she had thought of the idea long before she dared to propose it over the stem of a cigarette. Benedict stared at her dumbly, gently swinging by the toe of his boot. He found his words with an astonished laugh. "Come by me again?"

"I, me, dressed in breeches and a cravat, go with you, to your art club."

"So I did hear you correctly." He snorted and plucked the cigarette from her fingers. He took a long drag, hissing out the smoke. "No."

"Why _not_?"

"Are you truly asking me that question?" At her pointed look, Benedict shook his head. "Good God, Eloise. I should think it obvious how it would look bringing my sister to a place like that. Your reputation would be ruined before dawn."

She leaned towards him, daring, the hemp ropes of her swing gripped tightly in her hands. "Yes, but that's the point, Benedict. I would not _be_ your sister. I would be your strapping young cousin from the countryside, whetting his appetite on the teats of London."

Benedict spluttered, coughing hard into the smoke caught in his throat. "Please don't ever say that again. And the answer is still _no._ "

She paused, growing quiet as she pushed herself into a gentle to and fro. She watched as Benedict tipped his head back, the smoke flowing from his mouth like a chimney in winter. His mouth curled into a crooked smile as she watched him, as though he were still running her idea through his mind but loving it nothing more than some wild fancy to be amused at. Just a fancy. Eloise pressed her lips thin.

"It's easy for you," she said sharply, drawing his eyes. "So _bewilderingly_ easy. You can go to your little club, drink yourself silly, kiss girls, and not wonder for a moment at your freedom to do so. You could go to Covent Gardens and earn a disapproving frown. And yet for me, it would spell the end of my entire life in every way that matters. You can do this, and not even appreciate that you can."

"Eloise..." Benedict began. "It's not that simple--"

"Isn't it? Why do you get to decide your life, your freedoms, your choices, but I do not? What separates us is nothing more than mere coincidence of birth. If I had been born you, and you me, would you be satisfied with your lot? You see me, you see Daphne, and Francesca, and Hyacinth. Even mother. Would you?"

He leveled his gaze at her, leaving the cigarette to smolder between his fingers. It sent a wisp up, making the teal silk of his open vest dull its shine in the light. Benedict worked his mouth, then decided against it, rubbing at his jaw. The answer was clear: _I could not stand it._

Eloise decided to pounce. "All I ask for is one night. One taste at what you get to enjoy every day of your life. I'll refrain from trouble, and you'll be with me the entire time. I'm hardly the artist, but I know how to work a stick of charcoal well enough."

He sighed. "You don't even _look_ like a man," he countered wanely, but she could sense his resolve faltering. _Ha._

She grinned and stood, gesturing to him in a flourish. "We shall make a deal then. If I can conceal myself well enough to even convince _you_ of my masculinity, then you must take me."

He gave her a long look before raising to stomp the cigarette into the dewy grass, making it sizzle. Eloise pressed him, folding her arms and waiting for his answer. Benedict rolled his eyes. "Doubtful I would be convinced. Your face is far too soft, and you will convince no one with that hair. But--" he held up a hand when she went to protest, " _fine_."

Eloise refrained from letting out a _whoop_ of victory. She held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. He shook it, their deal sealed in a pleasingly gentlemanly manner. His grimace hinted that the manner of gesture was not lost on Benedict. "Don't make me regret this."

\----

She had one week to prepare, and Eloise made use of every second of it. The occasion was only to be a small one, something she was admittedly nettled at, but with the prospect dangling before her, she would take it, even if it was a second-rate endeavour. A few like-minded individuals, wine, and live models to sketch was pleasing enough. 

The first order of business come morning was a visit to the modiste with a set of measurements. She dared not stray too close to her own numbers. Still, it had to be something that would fit well enough, but not entice suspicion from the French seamstress. Eloise had long practiced squirrelling away money to draw upon at her leisure, and she called upon her modest hoard for a pair of fine suits, as well as all the additives her disguise would need. 

Delacroix had raised a brow when Eloise passed over a piece of paper listing the measurements. "My cousin," she explained, trying not to wring her hands and give herself away. "He is visiting from the countryside and requires an appropriate set of garments for the season, you see. Mama, has called on me for errands on his behalf." She then attempted her best false chuckle, and sighed in relief when the modiste smiled and tipped her head in acquiescence. 

"It would be best to drape him myself for the finest fit," she had warned, but did not complain further when Eloise waved her away. 

Next was a trip to the peruke maker, an odd place for a woman looking for more masculine hair pieces, but she played the part of a kind sister shopping for an unfortunate brother who could not achieve even a modest set of sideburns naturally. In this, the insecurity of men played to her benefit, for the master of the shop only nodded his head in solemn understanding. 

For other details, Eloise had taken Benedict's jab about the softness of her face with all seriousness. He was, to her irritation, absolutely right. She had looked at herself in the mirror, frowning and pressing fingers along her jawline. False sideburns would only go so far, and it would garner more than a little suspicion that her ability to grow facial hair stopped at her earlobes. She had promptly set about making her appearance more roguish. 

Though avoiding the suspicions of her lady's maid was no easy feat, Eloise thoroughly tested several of her hypotheses. More than a few days she had come down to breakfast with the powdered results in part still on her cheek. And had been promptly ordered to wash her face by her mother. It had become such an epidemic that Violet had asked whether she had been getting into Benedict's charcoal. Benedict himself had only looked on in silent bemusement, making childish frowns when she had huffed and left to execute their mother's orders. It came to be that the simplest solution was the one most readily available.

Dirt.

Eloise had come upon the discovery quite by accident when Hyacinth passed her a rose plucked from the garden, the stem still grubby with mud. Mud which had came to unwittingly be on her face, and mud, that when she rubbed at became stuck in her pores, giving a somewhat eerie show of stubble; the likes that Anthony seemed to have on his face no matter how much he shaved, and Benedict and Colin when they had not bothered to have their faces shaved before breakfast.

Now, she stood, disguise in place, poised before her floor length mirror, the door to her room thoroughly locked. Sideburns and artistically scrubbed mud in place, her countenance looked pleasingly roguish. As she petted down the false hair in place, she only hoped the glue didn't tear off her skin when removed. 

The modiste had done her work too. The breeches were comfortable (indeed, they were comfortable enough that Eloise swore to wear them to threads even after this little game was over), a little loose but nothing that a capped pin didn't fix. She had attempted to imitate Benedict's fashions with a warm gold silk vest overlaid with an emerald frock coat. Eloise turned to the side, inspecting her profile. She squinted at her chest but found nothing profoundly amiss. Her breasts, already small, had been tightly secured in a wrap of thick fabric. Perhaps a little too tight, and she sucked in a deep breath in an effort to loosen it a bit.The cravat could use some work, and she prodded the messy knot. Not the best, but certainly not the worse she had seen. Even some men of the _ton_ had dared to waltz about in a comparatively more scruffy look. 

She looked... good. If she did not look hard, did not scrutinise every shred of herself still remaining underneath the young man stood before the mirror, she could even convince herself. 

And yet. And yet there was one thing that repeatedly drew her eyes, that made her lips twist, and made her cringe: her hair. She had thought to style it in a queue with one of her rich blue ribbons tied at the base of her neck, as her father would have done as a young man, but it failed to look convincing. It was the one thing that gave her away. Too fine, too silky, and much too styled in the feminine, even in its current limp state. Eloise pursed her lips and gave a long, suffering sigh at the chestnut locks in the mirror. _They will see and instantly see through the scheme,_ she thought. That is, if the men could overcome laughter at a man that looks like he should still be in leading strings. That is, if Benedict did not laugh himself and deny her going out in the first place. 

She looked to her set of drawers and considered a moment, before moving to take out a pair of silver scissors. They were small but weighty, meant for fabric and needlework but now had the chance at a different responsibility. _This is a fool idea_ , she thought. It was, and she was fool enough for even considering it. Eloise worried her lip, threading her fingers into the loops. Her mother would kill her. Her prospects of becoming a debutante this fast approaching season would be equally dead in the water. That last fact was not the stickler she had thought it would be, but the first was certainly a deterrent. She worried her lip more, sucking on a bloom of copper, and casting an eye to the quickly setting sun darkening her room. Benedict would be leaving in a few hours. Something told her he would not hear pleas for another try at an outing. It was to be tonight or not at all. She took a lock of dark hair between her fingers. _Hair grows back_ , a voice told her. _Chances do not._ She wanted this. She _needed_ it. What was hair to pure, unadulterated freedom?

_What a fool idea_ , she thought, and chopped off the piece. Then another. Then another. Eloise felt a rush as she sheared off yet another, watching the strands fall apart and drift to the floorboards. Well, there was no turning back now. 

\----

Benedict scrubbed his face, idly wandering the halls of the Bridgerton house. A glance at his timepiece had told him that the night, while young, was indeed lumbering on. If he should be going to the club tonight it should be soon, else the session would be at an end before they even arrived. 

_They_. Benedict blew out a breath. Eloise was a woman of many strange and exuberant ideas but this was his sister at her peak. And, given how she had raced about the place all week while astutely avoiding their mother's suspicions (and Anthony's for that matter), he couldn't help but be impressed at her commitment to this folly all other things considered. 

Though Benedict thought himself equitable enough to give her a chance, the reality was simply that her scheme was doomed to fail. Eloise had always looked fairly feminine to him, and even if she did manage to look somewhat masculine, it was more likely that Benedict would look to have a pubescent boy in tow. Granville was a free-minded man, but Benedict did not think him so free-minded as to let young boys participate in his ungentlemanly soirees. Guilt twisted in Benedict's gut. Eloise would sulk for weeks at his rejection. Perhaps even permanently place him on her personal list of villainy. Still, perhaps it was for the best in the long run. She would hate him, but at least she would not be socially ruined if she were to be found out. 

Speaking of being found out, Benedict grimaced at the memory of Madame Delacroix taking amused sips from her wine as she informed him of his sister's visit to her shop, seeking garments for a mysterious cousin. Benedict had been forced to support Eloise's tale as they laid naked in the seamstress' bed, trading a bottle back and forth between them. 'Thomas Dormer'. Benedict shook his head. He was sure his mother would be pleased at Eloise taking her maiden name to dress up as a man. It had laid to rest, at least, any suspicion on the side of the modiste. He hoped. 

A movement caught his eye, and he paused. It came again in the form of an arm, dressed in the long cuffs of a dark, emerald coat, beckoning him from the slit of an open doorway. The body it belonged to was hidden from view, save for the peeking white of a cravat. Benedict sighed and ceased his wandering to watch it. Eventually he gave in, heeding the siren's call of a hand that began to wave at him more frantically. 

"I'm coming," he muttered.

"Took you long enough," a boyish voice said as Benedict turned to lock Eloise's door behind him. Benedict snorted. The manly lilt was a good enough attempt, but she would have to do better than that. He turned to see this gallant disguise she had set herself up in and stopped dead. 

There was a young man standing in Eloise's room. 

The stranger stood confidently, legs akimbo with an easy grace, his arms folded with a hand poised under his chin. He was dressed as finely as London's most prolific dandies and for a moment, Benedict almost thought the young man had stolen a set of his own garments. What disturbed him the most, however, was how eerily reminiscent the man looked to younger, blue-eyed Anthony, albeit lacking the mutton chops of the eldest Bridgerton sibling. 

"I take it from your silence that I have achieved victory," the man said with a grin. 

Benedict squeezed his eyes shut and picked up his jaw from where it hung dumbly. When he opened them, the man was still there, grinning widely. He roughly carded his hair and Benedict choked on his gasp.

"Eloise what have you _done_?" She had cut it short, was what she had done, styled in a fashion similar to Anthony's. That was likely what sealed the similarity between them. 

"What?" _She_ asked innocently, because it was still his sister underneath the guise. Benedict caught himself looking harder in attempt to find her. She was still there, of course. For the seeming magic she'd worked on herself, she couldn't change the shape of her nose, nor her thick eyebrows, nor the curve of her cheek, which was currently burnished with... _stubble?_ And she had sideburns. Good God, where did she get _sideburns_?

"Pray tell me you did not cut your damned _hair_."

"It was necessary," she assured, pulling at her cuffs and looking away. "I would have looked ridiculous otherwise."

" _Necessary?_ " Benedict nearly threw up his hands. "It may not look ridiculous tonight, but it certainly will tomorrow when you come down to breakfast. Mother will be beside herself." She was going to have to own that one. He may have agreed to this ridiculous scheme, but she would have to deal with consequences of her own making. Though witnessing Eloise explain to Lady Violet Bridgerton why her second eldest daughter had fancied to style her hair like her brothers before what was supposed to be the season of her debut would be one for the epics. 

"It's fine," she insisted, though her eyes were downcast. "I have hair pieces I can attach until it simply grows out again. No one will be the wiser." Benedict wasn't so sure about that, but it hardly mattered now. The deed -- and hair -- was done.

He looked her over further in astonishment, feeling a headache coming on. By God, it was convincing. He apparently had not needed to fear otherwise. She looked young, but not overly. If Benedict ignored the pressing fact that this was indeed his _sister_ , he would consider her a young man nearing twenty, ready to go off to Oxford, if he was not there already. His eyes followed down to her breeches, where he made a sound more likely to come from a strangled cat than a man. "Eloise, what in God's name have you stuffed down your front?"

She rankled. "Well, I had to make it convincing, didn't I?"

Benedict massaged the bridge of nose. She was going to give him a stroke as well as a headache. He stepped toward her, inspecting as he walked around her in a slow circle. It took one full rotation before he realised something and raised a brow. "You're taller." And she was. Not only did she look somewhat like Anthony, she was near tall as him too, only lacking an inch or so. 

She held out her boot and wriggled her foot. The heel of it was thicker than usual upon a closer look, though one wouldn't notice unless searching for the signs. Such a thing was not wholly unusual, Benedict knew a few men of the _ton_ that groused at being vertically deficient. They had readily bolstered their footwear to hide the fact. 

"I had the cobbler thicken the heel and raise the instep," she said, wriggling it again. "Looks rather natural, does it not?" Benedict couldn't disagree. "So?" She continued. "Pass your verdict. Am I not convincing enough? You've made your inspection several times over. Personally, I think I've done rather well."

She had, by God. So well he's rather annoyed by just how much. "It's not perfect," he admonished. "You have the look of a man, but as soon as you open your mouth it becomes less convincing the more you speak. It's too light," he elaborated when she frowned at him. 

She tried again, recalling the words of 'God save the King' with none of the melody to it. By the end, the tone of her voice was better. Not flawless, but it would do well enough to not raise any eyebrows. Benedict vainly searched for another misstep, if only to recover a bit of pride at how just badly he had lost his side of the bargain. He ordered her to walk the length of the room, eyes narrowed as he watched. 

"Your gait," he said stiffly. "It's feminine. Men don't walk that way."

"Now you're just being pedantic," she scowled. "My gait is perfectly fine. I'm not leaving to go promenade in Hyde Park." Yet when he walked the room in example, she studied him. After his turn, she set her own example and ended up stomping. Benedict barked a laugh.

"You're convinced," she said, her eyes bright.

"Yes, fine," he conceded. "I'm convinced."

\----

Benedict had taken the carriage and left the house alone, trusting her to find her own way out. A strange man emerging from a young woman's room, then trying to dodge the attention of servants and Bridgertons alike put a sweat on Eloise's brow. No, she had preferred to take the route well travelled and shimmy down the trellis connecting her window to the gardens below. It had proven a faithful escape whenever she sought the comfort of a cigarette in the dead of night. This time she had given a care to her clothing, trying not to have it catch and pull threads from her nice new vest. 

Benedict had already been waiting at the corner. He watched, bemusement clearly on his face, as she vaulted the wall of the Bridgerton gardens and dashed down the street. He opened the door himself rather than having the coachman hop down, and she jumped in, sprawling out on the other seat as she had often seen Colin do. There was a confidence that came with her disguise, and already she felt a sense of freedom in amongst the excitement. As they travelled, Eloise bade her brother to help modulate her tone further, and they practised until he kicked her leg, chuckling at her outraged gasp. 

Benedict had their coachman turn them out a block away and sent him home with a heavier purse. As she marched at his side, she was so struck with the thrill in her chest she thought she might skip. It must have coloured her face for Benedict laughed. "It won't be as exciting as you expect," he said, and took the jab to his side in good nature. 

"My dear brother, simply walking freely in the dark of night without fear is a thrill all on its own." She relished in the light drizzle falling on them from above.

"Truly?" He asked, and did so genuinely, as though astonished at her wonder. 

"Truly," she grinned. All of a sudden she could hold the excitement in no longer and she whooped, drawing the curious eyes of passerbys hunching their shoulders to the rain. Benedict sent a return attack at her ribs to quieten her but she dodged, trotting ahead to avoid his carousing and forcing him to catch up.

"You're mad," Benedict laughed, his eyes crinkling. "Come on then." He grabbed her elbow, drawing her through the outer gate of a large townhouse, and they scuttled up the stairs to huddle below the overhang as the rain turned from drizzle to sheets. 

He knocked a playful rhythm against the door, then unexpectedly, he strangely faltered. Eloise watched his face drop as he turned his ear to the door. Music, a band of violins, a pianoforte and some brass rang out from behind the thick oak. Voices, murmurs, laughter, hoots and all, marred the melody turning it into a rowdy cacophony. 

So much for a small occasion.

She said as much to Benedict and his eyes widened like a frightened hare. "Wait, Eloise, perhaps we should--"

The door was dragged open, and the sound muffled by wood hit them with full force, as did the wafting heat born from candles and the packing of bodies in the house. Eloise could see them from the doorway, lining Sir Granville's hall, throngs of them laughing together and murmuring to each other behind hands. It was not just men, but women too. Many, in fact, but none of the sort she might find at one of the _ton_ 's fine balls. She watched as a horse-faced man whispered into the ear of one of them drawing up a hand to cup her breast over dress. Eloise watched, and felt a warmth stir in her belly as the woman gasped and smiled and pulled him closer. Goodness, was this the usual of the art club then?

"Sir? You are here as one of master Granville's guests?" Eloise jerked to find an attendant standing before them, red-faced in his tightly buttoned frock and tightly knotted cravat. He looked thoroughly exhausted and the night hadn't even truly begun.

"Uh--" Benedict stammered, looking between the man and Eloise. He scrunched his face. "I think--"

"Bridgerton!" A finely dressed man appeared behind the doorman, moving past him with a playful clap to the doorman's waist. "Away with you Edward, I can attend to my own threshold." The servant's face twisted, unpleased but clearly used to his master's antics. 

"Granville," Benedict breathed, nodding in greeting and looking a little pale. "I, uh, I hope we're not too late? I thought this a small get together but it seems... not."

Granville smiled broadly, and clapped on Benedict's shoulder. From their few meetings in more polite company, Granville had always come across to Eloise as a jubilant man. Now he was a jubilant man made more merry by several cups. "Not at all. Not at all!" He exclaimed and spread his arms wide. "I thought we could use some more excitement tonight. My sincere apologies for not sending a note. Though, this would not be your first time seeing my premises in such a state." _Indeed?_ Eloise pursed her lips to hide a smirk. _Dear brother, what_ **_have_ ** _you been up to?_ Her shifting caught Granville's attention. "And who is this strapping young lad you've brought with you?"

If Benedict cringed one more time, she would stamp on his foot. "This--this is my cousin..."

"Thomas Dormer," Eloise interrupted heartily, stepping forward to hold out her hand. Granville shook it, appearing pleased at her firm grasp. He laughed. "Indeed? Dormer... that is from your mother's side, is it not, Bridgerton?"

Her elder brother worked his mouth. "Yes. Yes it is. _He_ is, uh, visiting from the country, and wanted a bit of excitement. I do hope it is no bother."

"Absolutely not! A young man, fresh from the countryside deserves to experience the wonders of the city. Come in, both of you! Let us close the door and hide this sordid occasion away from the ridiculousness of proper society." Oh, Eloise thought. She was coming to like this man. He slammed the door shut with a _bang_ , and beckoned them further into his rowdy den. 

The master of the house procured a glass of champagne for each of them, plucking them from the tray of a passing footman before taking one for himself. He sipped it and made a noise, an exclamation that he had just remembered something terribly important. "Ah, come, Bridgerton, I have some pieces I wish to show you. Not mine, of course -- I wouldn't deign to show you something so unspirited -- but of a friend. He's visiting from Halifax."

Benedict gave a wane chuckle and gestured to Eloise. "I should, uh, I should stay with E-- _Thomas_."

Granville made a show of rolling his eyes and waving him off. "Bridgerton, you need not play the stalwart chaperone. Let the boy have some _fun!_ " He winked at Eloise and gestured to the myriad of men and women lining his apartment. "Go on, there's plenty to whet your appetite on here. Wine." He leaned in close, flicking his head to a pair of ladies watching their conversation and giggling to one another, " _women_." 

He dragged Benedict away by the elbow, her brother shooting her a panicked glance. Eloise winked at him and sent him away with a little wave that made Granville laugh. 

Now with Benedict gone, Eloise's bravado took a hit of its own. She took a swig of her champagne to dampen the trepidation and excitement equally twisting knots in her belly, then stepped further into the lion's den. Where does one start in a place like this when on one's own? Gently squeezing past some chatting men, she came to lean against the doorframe of Granville's salon, and sought her bearings. 

The men inside had been gracious enough to allow several women the leather lounging chairs, though they leant over the backs and braced themselves by their elbows to speak lowly. It should have been no surprise really, but every man Eloise spied seemed a dandy, and every woman a socialite. If she asked, she was sure she'd find opera singers, actors, poets, and artists. Among them would be pamphlet writers of the kind that eschewed any and all political decorum in attempt to seduce one of the _ton_ into providing a pension. Such an identification was not meant as an insult, Eloise herself could only hope to be paid to write for a patron, while earning her own money on top. It was true that her gender didn't stop her from doing so, but it was no lie that women writers did not fare well in the eyes of society. 

She sucked in a smoky breath, noticing the haze about the room bolstered by candle and tobacco pipe. _I should have brought my cigarettes,_ she thought idly, suddenly missing the paper stem of one nestled between her fingers. The more she looked, the more Eloise noticed. One of these things of note was that she was apparently as much as spectacle as everything else. Through the haze she felt eyes upon her, and when she caught them she found them to be women sending demure glances that took in the length of her. One, red-haired and cheeks heavy with rouge, outright stared behind the rim of a wine glass. For a moment Eloise felt naked under the scrutiny, and she checked herself for fear her scheme was exposed. She pulled at her frock coat, subtly adjusted her cravat and picked at her hair ( _short_ , _strange_ ) but nothing seemed amiss. She nodded to the madam politely and earned a pretty smile in reply. 

As she stood, Eloise became increasingly aware of her party companions and the salaciousness disguised under the appearance of barely there decorum. People touched each other. A man even stared as the red-haired woman did, him smartly dressed and sharp faced with eyes that leered from his corner of the salon. Did he not know he stared at a young man? _Ah_... Eloise slowly understood. That... that was the whole reason he stared. Did Granville know of the types that crowded his salon? He must have. He invited them. And Benedict no doubt did as well. 

Her mother would be horrified to know, but Eloise had heard of places where men would gather and treat each other like the ladies of Covent Gardens. Molly houses, they called them. Though when she had first overheard the word from Colin, he had not said it with much kindness as he joked that Sir Hawsby must frequent one. 

Eloise cast a subtle glance to those of the staring man's companions who were... quite preoccupied with one another. Those men leaned close as though no one else kept the room with them. Two of them, both likely of age with Colin, smiled and laughed and pressed cheeks in their intimate conversation. She watched as the dark haired one slid a hand across his fellow's waist, then lower, then lower still until he brushed his companion's groin and brought forth an open mouthed gasp hidden by the babble and singing violins chasing a melody in the dining hall. They didn't notice her watching. She doubted they would. Here, in Sir Granville's salon, they found each other without care for the demands of a society beyond these walls.

Eloise smiled to herself. Instantly she found herself to admire them. What was freedom if not daring to live as one willed and not as one was told? She looked to her red-haired admirer and wondered. The woman had turned away, nodding along to something a dark-skinned woman said, beaming and laughing cheerily as she did. 

The warmth in Eloise's belly stirred, and she dared. 

"I shouldn't wish to interrupt, but I fear if I do not, my night will be quite the lonely one," she told her admirer when she crossed the distance. The opening was not her own, but one of Benedict's. She had rolled her eyes when she heard him say it last season, but it got him results then, and astonishingly, Eloise received results in turn. 

"A terrible fate indeed, sir," the woman said and she passed her hand for Eloise to take. Eloise almost shook it, before realising her admirer expected to be admired in return. She caught herself, and leaned down to brush her lips over the dainty hand. The pretty smile returned.

Eloise's heart leapt. 

\----

The night eventually chased away many of Granville's guests, but not the carnality. Benedict was nowhere to be found, yet Eloise didn't care. She was handed alcohol by her compatriots of the soiree and took every one happily, throwing it back until the room wobbled and her trepidation fled. Wine, champagne, hard liquor; her belly burned with it. Over the course of the night, it also shivered with the heat of another kind.

Her red-haired madam -- Eliza was her name -- stayed with her awhile. Their words, first amicable, turned more audacious as Eloise tried her luck. "Kiss me," she begged at last when she could not take it anymore. She wanted to know. She needed to know. And her Eliza, smiling so prettily, obliged. She kept restrained, their lips only brushing before she pulled away and Eloise turned the fool, chasing the softness. Eliza allowed her -- this fool of a young man -- another brush before Eloise couldn't wait and cupped her cheek. The woman disguised took the lead, and the part of Eloise that was not preoccupied or thoroughly inebriated realised that was likely what dear Eliza waited for. Eloise had deepened the kiss and her heart had thundered, inciting a booming in her ears and a craving in her veins that burned and burned. 

And then Eliza was gone, pulled away by her friends into the night. Eloise had half a mind to follow her. Could they meet again? Could they do that again? Her fingers had tingled from where they were bunched in Eliza's pale dress. But then she was alone on the lounging chair, until she was not. Eloise craved, and she set about relieving it with another partner. The men were of no interest, but the _women_. God in Heaven forgive her, Eloise could not get enough. She lowered herself to acting as she had seen her brother's do, saying the things she had heard them whisper to ladies when they thought their sisters were not listening. 

Her luck struck twice, one gentle and delicate, and the other putting the passion of dear Eliza to shame. This one was daring enough to sit on Eloise's lap, her rich dark hair spilling over her bronze shoulder as she tipped her head back and laughed at a quip Eloise thought rather witty. 

Her new madam whispered she was an actress; a lady of Lillo, Diderot, and the Master himself. With dear Amelia, Eloise was enamoured in an instant. ' _Act to me_ ,' Eloise requested, and received a private soliloquy in her ear that made her chest warble. Soon Amelia's hands began to wander; into Eloise's short, short hair, across her shoulders, down her bound chest. Then dear Amelia dared lower. Eloise stiffened, grabbing the actress's hand. 

"Sir?" Amelia leaned back, her brows drawn together. Eloise feared her insulted and dashed to make amends.

"I-I'm sorry, I simply--"

Something dawned in the woman's eyes and she smiled, widely, darkly, as a lioness would at an abandoned foal. She drew herself close, pressing her breast flush with Eloise's. Amelia's teeth brushed Eloise's ear and the disguised woman shivered. "Have you not much experience in pleasing a woman and being pleased by one, sir?" She whispered. Eloise could not help herself. She blushed, opening her mouth and letting it fall adrift, no experience to call upon. 

Amelia smiled, her pale green eyes alight. "A pretty tragedy. One that clearly must be put right." 

"Yes," Eloise croaked. "I..." 

"Hush. You've proven adept at sweet words. Now use your hands, Mr Dormer."

Gentle, she took Eloise's hand and drew it under her skirts. As her fingertips brushed the actress's inner thigh, the woman made a breathy sound, small and honest. Deep, hot heat was nestled between her legs and she invited Eloise to press, to slide soft fingers into the slick warmth. "Your thumb," she murmured, "Rub in circles-- gentle now, not too hard. Press, yes, just like that. Lighter, now." She gasped, and Eloise felt heat leaking out between her own legs. "Tease me, sir."

Her heart thundered. Eloise tried her earnest. She kissed Amelia in a rush, hand working as she had been instructed. She took all the actress's little gasps and allowed the other woman her own. As she worked, dear Amelia stroked her face, and her caresses left imprints Eloise feared she would feel well into the dawn. "You're beautiful," Eloise told her, and she knew how she would look to the woman in her lap -- a young man, wide-eyed and lovestruck. She stroked the little nub, valiantly hoping she was doing so right, even as she could feel a slickness gather behind the raw ache between her own legs. 

The admission pleased dear Amelia and she kissed her suitor with a passion, slipping her tongue between Eloise's lips to flick the 'young man's' own and dance along her teeth. "What a talent you are," she breathed as she pulled away, pressing cheek to cheek. 

When dear Amelia peaked, she did so with her nose pressed to Eloise's temple. They moved in tandem, rolling together as the actress ground on Eloise's hand, and Eloise twisted her wrist; anything to ensure her lover kept making those sweet sounds. "Oh," Amelia gasped. " _Oh_ ," and Eloise felt a bolt of lightning rush to her belly, one that left a warm, thrilling heat, and she wanted to gasp too. She had little time to give the ecstasy thought as Amelia slumped, hanging her arms over Eloise's shoulders and holding her close. "Excellent... most excellent sir," she murmured. Eloise breathed. Dear Amelia's hair smelt of strawberries. Surely this had to be some form of Heaven. 

They rested together, entwined as Eloise had read lovers would do in the old myths. Goodness, the act of pleasing a woman had called upon a hidden sentimentality within her. The clarity of mind formed from the thrilling rush subsided, and Eloise was almost dazed as the effects of alcohol came charging back. Eloise took it gladly, and hummed as it settled in her bones. Tonight was a fine night. _The finest_ , she thought, as she absently stroked lines down Amelia's spine. 

Their quiet sojourn was interrupted when someone stopped in front of them to clear his throat. " _Thomas_."

Eloise jerked, nearly displacing the woman in her lap. Benedict stood before their little hideaway, his hair fluffed and his cravat undone. Sobriety came upon Eloise all of a sudden. She swallowed thickly. 

An awkward pause sat between the three of them. Say what you will of the audacity of Eloise Bridgerton but she did not expect to be caught passionately fondling another woman by one of her brothers. 

"Benedict..." Eloise wanted to sink into the cushions of the lounging chair. Perhaps wither and die there. Better that than face the dressing down that would assuredly occur in the carriage. 

"It's getting late," he said; gently, assuring, and strangely lacking in judgement. He gestured toward Granville's front door. "We should go and hail a coach." To Eloise's lady, he said, "my most sincere apologies madam, but I must steal my cousin from you."

Amelia eyed him, raising herself from Eloise's lap with an easy grace. She paused, regarding Benedict as he did her. But then he shook his head, and their wordless conversation was over. Eloise peered at them, attempting to determine what was said. She raised a brow at Benedict and he shook his head once again. _You don't want to know._ Don't? Or was not allowed to?

Amelia turned to her as Eloise stood, teetering a little but keeping her balance. Perhaps Benedict's arrival hadn't sobered her as much as she'd thought. Amelia took her cravat in hand (thoroughly debauched at this point, poor thing), and tugged gently, raising herself on her tiptoes to peck a kiss to the side of Eloise's mouth. She tugged again, harder this time, to bid Eloise lean down.

"Should you like to continue this tutelage, sir, I am available at your disposal," she promised in a whisper in Eloise's ear. "Call on me in Beak Street, the house at the northern end, and I shall teach you how to use your mouth." Eloise shivered. _I should like to learn right now._ But then Amelia was pulling away, gathering her skirts, and disappearing into another of Granville's rooms still alight with laughter. How Eloise wished to go with her. It all seemed over too soon.

Benedict was also laughing, muffled by a hand over his mouth. "What?" Eloise asked, feeling put out. 

He took her by the nape and pushed her out into the rain. Only when the thick oaken door was shut and latched behind them did he say, "Eloise, at this rate, you'll be a more accomplished rake than any of your brothers."

\----

Anthony flipped back and forth the front of his father's timepiece. _Click. Click. Click. Click_. The kiss of metal against metal felt a balm to the nerves festering in his throat at the stack of letters once stacked neatly but now lay haphazard before him. The cusp of a new season always bought them on in droves. Solicitors to be met, finances to be examined, the House of Lords to be addressed. It was enough to wish he had been a second son. Part of him did. Perhaps his father had once wished the same when he was in the same position. 

Anthony rubbed the space between his eyes, letting the timepiece fall open to show its face. Midnight had fled some time ago. He should relieve himself to bed. He didn't. There was little difference between being consumed by pressing thoughts in a leather chair, and being consumed by the same staring at a canopy. Still, he envied his family and servants. Benedict and Colin had made themselves scarce into the rainy night. His mother, Francesca, Hyacinth, and Gregory had pleased themselves in the salon until the night lengthened. Eloise had been sequestered in her rooms since dinner as she sometimes did and had not come out since. 

Anthony considered the unanswered letters before blowing a breath and tipping his head back. "Sort yourself, man," he ordered softly. The command went unheeded.

A lull in his thoughts caused him to note the muffled screech of a hinge sounding beyond the realm of his study. Anthony frowned. At this hour? He supposed it was likely Benedict. Or Colin. Though they usually stayed out all night and returned in the early hours of the morning. Return any later and they would earn a scowl from the Dowager Viscountess. The muffled giggling, however, roused Anthony his seat.That was not one voice, but at the very least two.

_He wouldn't dare..._ which brother filled the category of 'he' was up for debate, though it did not matter if either Benedict or Colin was suddenly hare-brained enough to bring one of their conquests into the Bridgerton house. Anthony pulled open the door of the study and marched into the dimly lit expanse of the hall. 

Benedict and another man could be found at the base of the stairwell, chortling to themselves. Benedict's companion gave his brother a good natured push which earned him a snort when he wobbled in place. 

Drunk. 

Well, at least Benedict's companion wasn't a woman. "Good evening," Anthony called. 

Both of them froze. Suspicion reared within the eldest Bridgerton as Benedict and the man took far too long to turn to face him, and did so far too slowly. "Good evening, brother," Benedict greeted stiffly. His smile was stiff as well. His companion -- just barely a man in truth, now that Anthony could look at him -- smiled a bit more easily and politely nodded his head in Anthony's direction. His smile faltered when Anthony closed the gap. 

"Lord Bridgerton, good evening," he greeted, his voice on the lighter side of masculine. He did not say anything further, coughing and deferring to Benedict. 

There was an awkward pause. Anthony raised an eye at his brother. "Well? Am I to be introduced to your companion?"

Benedict squeezed his eyes shut -- as he often did when he'd been caught acting the fool. "Ah, yes. My apologies. This is Thomas. A friend of mine from our art club. The session had gotten late and he had not arranged a place to stay, so I offered him a room here." His breath was heavy with the stink of wine; enough to twist Anthony's mouth. Quite the 'session', then.

"I hope it is no trouble, sir," Thomas said, bobbing his head. "I could not trust myself to find a place in my, uh, current state." He gestured to himself in a drunken flourish of self depreciation. 

Benedict certainly knew how to pick his associates. "Well then," Anthony ceded, "you must join us at breakfast, so we may meet in a more amicable fashion. I should be interested to know how you started your friendship with my brother."

There was a queer shift in Thomas' eyes. It went beyond simple apprehension. Was that... fear? 

The suspicion, previously idle, now took hold. Anthony examined the young man in front of him with a frown. Strangely, the more he looked, the more a niggling feeling in the back of his mind made its presence known. Why did this man seem so... _familiar?_ It felt as though they had met a long time ago, though as to when Anthony could not say. Not Oxford, the stranger was too young for that. He looked younger than even Colin. His eccentricity would have been noted by Lady Whistledown, dared he ventured into any of the _ton_ 's soirees. And yet. Anthony felt as though he had seen that nose before, those high cheekbones flushed with whatever alcohol that had been consumed tonight. That chin... that jaw... those _eyes_. 

_Where?_

He looked to Benedict who had been casting subtle glances at his companion that he thought Anthony could not see, his face tight. He would not look at Anthony himself, his blue eyes cast low. _He is anxious,_ Anthony realised. Benedict had always been prone to this type of behaviour, even as a boy. It was a habit he could not shake, even as a man. 

Quickly returning to inspect Thomas jarred Anthony so badly he had to turn back to Benedict. Then to Thomas. Then back to Benedict. His jaw slackened. 

They looked as though they could be brothers. 

_Wait._

"Well!" Thomas began merrily. "I'm afraid for my part I must bid you goodnight, Lord Bridgerton. I'm struggling to keep my feet. I would be delighted to meet your family come morning. But for now, adieu!" He quickly shook Anthony's hand, and Anthony felt dazed. _Hold a moment..._ Thomas nudged Benedict who bucked and sent a grim 'good night' to Anthony. They turned tail toward the stairs, ascending in a manner more comparable to fleeing. In their rush, Thomas stumbled on the lip of a stair, letting out a small noise that was almost girlish. 

Anthony's stomach dropped to the vicinity of his feet. _No..._ An ember began to build, filling the void and rousing a racing in his veins. _She wouldn't be that much of a fool..._ The ember sparked a light like the inventive fancies displayed at soirees to entertain the _ton._ The comparison did not seem so entertaining now. _It couldn't be..._ Thomas glanced over his shoulder at the Viscount stood at the bottom of the stairs below. His eyes were wide, and a very _very_ familiar blue. 

It was. 

The racing fire turned into a blaze. Then to sheer incandescence. 

Anthony saw red. 

" _ELOISE JANE BRIDGERTON!_ "

**Author's Note:**

> Feeling sexy, will likely continue later~


End file.
